


Port of Call

by manic_intent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Human!Napoleon, M/M, Napoleon sees it as a chance to get his hands on a Faberge egg, That vampire AU where a plague has swept the northern parts of the world, Vampire!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: The plague had come out of the cold north. That part, everyone could agree on. Whether it was still active in the snow, or whether it had run its course was still a matter of academic debate, one that Napoleon had little interest in, up until he’d decided on this madcap scheme. He watched his breaths turn into steam in the chill for a moment longer, then he stepped through an unmarked door in a brick wall, heading down a narrow spiral stairway.





	Port of Call

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for my second Fandom Trumps Hate winner, elizabetheatrics, who asked for first time Napollya. Thanks again everyone who participated in FTH! See you guys again next year. I’m guessing this will probably run until the end of the reign of Cheetolini. 
> 
> I'm not really sure why I felt like writing yet another vampire AU... I kinda blame the Cable trailer for Deadpool 2 spinning me eventually back into rereading ancient Hannibal King x Drake stuff, oh well.

The plague had come out of the cold north. That part, everyone could agree on. Whether it was still active in the snow, or whether it had run its course was a matter of academic debate, one that Napoleon had little interest in, up until he’d decided on this madcap scheme. He watched his breaths turn into steam in the chill for a moment longer, then he stepped through an unmarked door in a brick wall, heading down a narrow spiral stairway. 

Moscow Above was effectively dead, a snow-covered vista of silent haunts, the winter icing over cars and emptied buildings. Moscow Below was an intermittently linked network of heavily fortified stations, a grim defense against the inevitable. Napoleon had memorised a map before coming north, and he took a few quiet turns to arrive at Arbatskaya station. He raised his palms as he stepped into the spotlight in the tunnel, blinking against the UV, then there was a barked assent in Russian, and he walked on, hands up, to the high gate manned with snipers that stretched the height of the tunnel, blocking off the station from the line. 

“Your business, stranger?” called a grizzled old gate guard in Russian, from the tower through a rifle slot. 

“Trade and news,” Napoleon replied in kind. 

“You’re a drifter?”

“In a way.” 

“You don’t sound like a Muscovite.” 

“I’m American,” Napoleon said, and waited as a buzz of astonishment rippled overhead. 

“What are you here for, American?” Grizzled asked. 

“Passing through,” Napoleon said, because his true business often didn’t pass muster. 

There was another long, whispered buzz, then Grizzled said, “Wait.”

This part was normal too. Napoleon waited patiently in the chill, next to dead tracks, as someone shuffled off, presumably to talk to Arbatskaya’s mayor. Eventually, there was a low click from behind the gate, and it opened, just enough to admit one. He bowed with a flourish, and walked through, smiling ingratiatingly as he found himself facing aimed pistols. The mayor was beyond the ring of guards, an old woman wrapped up tight under wool and furs, a steel chain around her shoulders. She stared at him, openly suspicious. 

“Your business,” she said. 

“I’m CIA,” Napoleon said, which had been true for a while. 

There was an angry mutter around him, but the mayor sniffed. “Is that why you’re in Moscow? CIA business?”

Napoleon nodded. “I’m only going to be passing through.” 

“To where?” 

“What do you think?”

“We’re the last human port of call before the Kremlin,” the mayor said, her eyes narrowing. “Many have come through here before, going east, and have never returned. Usually, we get strigoi hunters from the Vatican. Once, a team from the Mossad. You are our first CIA agent.”

“Hopefully your last,” Napoleon said, with as much insouciance as he could, and she grunted, waving down the guards. 

“Trade, eat, sleep, do what you like,” she said, turning to head back into the station proper. “Information is free. For everything else, I’m inclined also to be generous.”

“That’s nice of you.” Napoleon was a little surprised. 

She grunted again. “You go to your death. Or worse. At least your last days in Moscow should be hospitable.” 

Arbatskaya station had once been a grand edifice of marble and chandeliers. Now its chandeliers stayed lit, though they’d been reconnected to generators, and its high vaulted white ceiling was grease-stained from cooking fires. The air was thick with a familiar unpleasant melange from too many people living in too small an underground space, but Napoleon was used to it now, having made his way up from Istanbul. 

The people they passed looked Napoleon over with little to no real interest. They too had the dead-eyed look of habitual survivors. Arbatskaya wasn’t far from the Kremlin by any means, a 20 minute walk or so overland, not that anyone sane would go overland so close to the Kremlin, even during the daytime. “How bad are the ghouls?” Napoleon asked. 

“They attack us now and then. Once every few days. If you’re lucky, you’ll see a pack tonight.” 

Napoleon grimaced. He hoped not. Ghouls weren’t _too_ much of a problem if you weren’t cornered with no backup, but there was something profoundly depressing about them. Infected victims of the strigoi, but not infected enough by the plague to make the full change into a vampire. Instead, the blood virus rotted their brains, leaving them feral shadows of the people they had been. 

Arbatskaya _was_ fairly welcoming, given the circumstances. Napoleon restocked water and dried food for free at the general store, which was a canvas-cordoned off area in the corner of the station, near one of the collapsed elevators that would’ve led up above ground. The store was run by a quiet old man and a young woman who introduced herself pertly as ‘Gaby’. “You don’t look Russian,” Napoleon told her, as he repacked his bag. 

“Neither do you,” she said, switching to German. This got a glance from the old man at the workbench, but he looked away when Napoleon gave him a curious stare. 

“A little far east, aren’t you?” 

“Could say the same for you, American.” Gaby looked into his pack with open curiosity. “You’re going after the Tambov clan?” 

Napoleon laughed. “No, no. I’m not suicidal.”

“Then? What are you going to do in the Kremlin?”

“Sightsee. Hopefully not get eaten.” 

“For someone looking to ‘sightsee’, you’re not carrying a lot of weapons.” 

“A gunshot’s a beacon that I don’t need.” Napoleon preferred daggers. Or, if he had to, the crossbow that he had slung against his pack, the bolts in a quiver at his hip. “How bad is the ghoul infestation?” 

“Mayor Elena didn’t tell you?”

“She told me to wait for nightfall. Apparently you guys get attacked a lot.” 

“Not just us. They attack the water supply too. And the tunnels linking us to other stations. Smolenskaya fell just months ago. Our food comes from Kievskaya. It’s close enough to the Moskva River that it can still run greenhouses above ground.” 

“What do you people trade with?” 

Gaby gestured at her shop. Other than water tanks and packs of dried food, there were racks of oddities that could’ve only come from passing teams of strigoi hunters: elaborate crucifixes, timepieces, spare blades, guns, grenades. Smaller, more personal items too: here a mother-of-pearl comb, there a little silver music box. “Memories,” she said, and smiled, wry and sad. “Need a room? We have a spare bunk.”

#

Most settlements in Napoleon’s experience would’ve long packed up and evacuated elsewhere if they’d had to face ghoul packs every other day or so. Russian settlements like Arbatskaya just took it as a fact of life. They even had a system for it: a warning bell, people manning the rifle slats, then flamethrowers if they could afford the fuel. Eventually the ghoul pack would die or back off. The bodies would be moved via mining cart to some disposal section further down the track, and life went on.

The Russians. Were insane. 

Still, Napoleon wasn’t quite sure why the strigoi that inhabited the Kremlin suffered Arbatskaya to exist. They could take the settlement if they wanted to. Suffer some casualties, maybe, but it wasn’t as though the strigoi cared overmuch about ghouls, since they could always easily make more. He was still thinking this over as he made his way eastwards overland, hands loose by his side, soft-footed. 

The sun was growing high in the sky. It was tempting to walk through the main streets, which were waist-deep with snow, but Napoleon knew ghouls sometimes slept in drifts, waiting for nightfall. He kept to quiet alleys, a little hampered by his snowshoes.

London’s information was out of date. The walls of the Kremlin were manned by humans, not ghouls, bundled up against the cold, cradling rifles. The red stone spires with their tiered green roofs sat starkly against a gray sky, beautiful and forbidding, the palace and gold-domed cathedrals beyond. A fortress. Napoleon admired it from the shadow of a building, drinking it all in, the snow-topped trees, the striped domes of the palace. Then he went to work. 

It took Napoleon three quiet days of scouting and rechecking CIA information before he found an unmanned entry through to the Kremlin Arsenal. Sneaking in was easier. The building was disused: not even the alarm system had been switched on. Power was at a premium now that the war had over resources had turned bitter. Napoleon picked his way through the dusty air, taking his time under the high-vaulted ceiling. Many of the jewelled pieces of art that had once sat on red velvet tiers had long been looted when humans had began their retreat or moved elsewhere by the strigoi. The chandeliers overhead were dark where they were intact, or shattered underfoot. 

Napoleon pursed his lips. He strolled past empty exhibit cases, reading the plaques. The royal carriages exhibit amused him with their gold and red regalia, ill-lit by his torch, and he ran his fingers lightly over the velvet and gilt, imagining the thunder of horses. 

Breaking into the vault was simple. And thankfully, the thing he was looking for was still where it was meant to be. Napoleon cut into the glass case, caught the circle of glass before it fell through, and set it carefully on the ground. Then he lifted the Trans-Siberian egg, packing it lovingly into his bag. The Memory of Azov was next. 

Napoleon was considering the Clover Egg, with its gorgeous gold filigree leaves, when a voice in the dark beyond said in English, “A thief? Interesting.” 

So much for the Clover. If he just grabbed it now and ran, he might break it, and Napoleon would never forgive himself. Dropping a flash grenade, Napoleon scooped up his bag and fled as something snarled behind him in surprise and pain. Pain. One of the strigoi. Gritting his teeth, Napoleon sprinted for the door of the vault. He couldn’t outpace a real vampire for long, of course, but he didn’t have to. Another flash grenade didn’t find its mark. Instead, the strigoi behind him laughed. 

“You’re going to get caught, little thief.”

Fear was good. He put on an extra bit of speed, skidding out of the vault, to where his tools were still attached to the control panel in the wall. Napoleon whistled in a quick staccato, and the vaultcracker glowed blue, humming, powering on the door mechanism. Steel bars slammed down just before the steel gates. Just in time. The strigoi chasing him let out a yelp as he barrelled straight into the bars. 

Napoleon let out a slow breath. There wasn’t much light to go by from his torch. The trapped strigoi glared at him, baring sharp canines. He’d been handsome once, tall, blonde, strong-jawed, wearing a black turtleneck and brown slacks. Big hands closed over the bars, and above, something ground unpleasantly as he tested the give. 

“What does CIA want with Fabergé eggs?” 

“You’ve got a plant in Arbatskaya.” That explained things. “I’m not CIA.” 

“Then?” 

“You got it right the first time. I’m a thief.” Napoleon made a show of packing his vault equipment back into his bag. The strigoi narrowed his eyes, sniffing the air, and he stayed silent until Napoleon started to back away. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Catch me and I’ll tell you,” Napoleon said, sketching a playful bow. 

The strigoi, strangely, laughed. “Done. My name is Illya,” he said, looking Napoleon over with an ugly sort of intensity. “See you soon, little thief.”

#

Napoleon avoided Arbatskaya now that he knew it was compromised, but there wasn’t an easy way through the ghoul packs that infested the Arbat district. He spent the night burrowed in a snow drift—he knew any search party would likely be checking the intact buildings—and picked his way overland once it was daylight, careful to brush away his tracks. A human search party came close by once, but Napoleon hid himself under a car and waited until they were past.

He made it to Salar’yevo safely before dark, though it took him a while to find a route down. The mayor was surprised to see him, but ultimately indifferent. Napoleon went to sleep in the public flophouse, his daggers close by, and woke to a klaxon pealing, people scurrying by, shouting orders and grabbing weapons. Over the alarm, Napoleon could hear the gargling snarls of ghouls. 

A perimeter breach? Napoleon didn’t wait to find out. The panic in the air was telling enough. This wasn’t a normal attack. He found a fire escape at the back of the station and let himself through the locks and traps, heading up to the surface, scrambling over rusting steps, too quick for quiet. 

Outside, the world was dark. All the cities overrun by strigoi were dead cities. Vampires didn’t need light: not to hunt anything warm. Napoleon looked around, checking for the nearest deep snow drift, strapping on snowshoes from his pack. He was starting to sweat into his parka, which wasn’t ideal. Scent could give him away to a ghoul pack as much as his heat signature could. And he was going to be slow and blind out here. 

Swearing under his breath, Napoleon started down the street. At least he was far enough up top that he couldn’t hear the screams.

The ghoul pack found him one block down. They surfaced from a subway entryway in a tide, scuttling on hands and feet, grinning, yelping. Most of them were still clad in rotting rags, though the blood virus was eating them away, blinding some, scouring away skin, hair dropping away in clumps. They _stank_. 

Napoleon grit his teeth, tearing off snowshoes, stumbling for a big tree near a snow-covered car. He scrambled up to higher branches, fumbling for his crossbow. The first ghoul that reached the tree he shot through the skull, caving in bone and decaying flesh. Then the next. By the time he was out of bolts, Napoleon was shivering and breathing hard, hands clenched tight on his daggers. All he had to do was survive until the sunrise.

Then the pack stiffened, glancing back at the subway entrance. They hissed, backing away from the tree, swaying from side to side. Strolling over, his hands in jacket pockets, was the tall blonde strigoi. Illya.

“Little thief,” Illya said, once he reached the foot of the tree. 

“Come up here and get me,” Napoleon told him. Fighting among the branches would slow even a vampire down. Hopefully. Enough for Napoleon to stab Illya a few times with his silver-edged blades. 

Illya chuckled. The ghouls went quiet, scuttling away, melting into the dark. “You care about Salar’yevo? Come.” 

“What makes you think I care about them? I was just passing through.” 

Illya tilted his head. “I have everyone cornered in marketplace. Even the children. I count to five. You don’t come down? I start with the children.” 

Was he lying? Napoleon wasn’t sure. “Illya.” 

“Five.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He didn’t care about a stopover, he didn’t. 

“Four.” 

“Look, you guys tolerate all these station-towns, I know you do. What’s the point of getting rid of them? You already have blood farms.”

“Three.” 

“All right. All right.” Napoleon climbed down the tree, raising his palms. “I’m down. I’ll give you people back the eggs, okay?” 

Vampires were fast. Illya went from where he was to Napoleon’s side in a flash, and he laughed as Napoleon tried to stab him in the neck, grabbing his wrist. “If you kill me,” Illya said, “the ghouls go berserk.” 

“Normal ghoul packs aren’t that big of a threat. Half of the time they eat each other. A driven pack, though, can do serious damage to town defenses.” 

“I can hear your heartbeat, little thief,” Illya said, grinning to bare his thief. “You’re afraid.” 

“Probably should’ve been paying attention to more than my heartbeat,” Napoleon said brightly, and headbutted Illya sharply. Illya staggered back with a snarl which turned into a pained yelp as the flashbang Napoleon had palmed into Illya’s jacket pocket went off.

Napoleon didn’t stop to look. He was scrambling onto the snow-clad car, ducking into a side street, wincing at the noise. Something not quite human howled behind him, and at the sound of quickening steps, Napoleon ducked, dropped his pack, and kicked out behind him. Illya made a surprised sound, as Napoleon hoped. Vampires didn’t usually expect prey to fight back. Before he could drop another flashbang, though, Illya had cut out his knees and as Napoleon rolled with his fall, a hand pinned him down, curling around the back of his throat. 

“Not bad. The thief has fangs.” 

Before Napoleon could answer, Illya had hauled him against the wall, nuzzling his throat once, mockingly gentle, then he bit down.

First stage infection had the same effect as a powerful anaesthetic. Non-lethal, at that point, but usually the person bitten wouldn’t be able to fight off the vampire anyway. CIA conditioning was all about trigger reflexes, enhanced by serum shots. Napoleon grit his teeth and buried his daggers into Illya’s back. 

Illya jerked away, with a shocked sound—godsdamn, Napoleon hadn’t managed to get his heart. In the dim light from Napoleon’s shoulder bars, Illya blinked, comically surprised for a moment. He pulled the first knife out from his back, glancing at the blade, then back at Napoleon. “Interesting,” he said, licking his bloodied mouth, and lunged over, fist balled. Lights out.

#

Of all the places Napoleon thought he might wake up in, the bed of a nice hotel suite wasn’t exactly one of them. He pressed his fingertips to his throat, and relaxed as he felt a pulse. The bite hurt. Scabbing over, though. As Napoleon felt gingerly over it, there was a faint sound by the door. Illya leaned his shoulder against the frame, the Trans-Siberian egg held one-handed.

“Pretty thing,” Illya said, tossing it lightly from one hand to another as though it weighed nothing. “Holds a secret?” 

“Golden train inside. Please don’t do that. It’s very fragile.” Napoleon’s stomach dropped as Illya tried to unscrew the top of the egg. “Stop. _Stop_ that.” He scrambled over, snatching the Trans-Siberian away, backing off to the bed. Carefully taking off the green lid, he exhaled in relief. Everything still looked fine. “Don’t you know how old this is?” 

“1900. Gift to Empress Alexander Fiodorovna. What I want to know is why CIA wants it.”

“I’m not CIA.”

Illya sniffed. “CIA injects agents with serum. Makes them immune to bite.” He smiled, canines indenting his lip. 

“So why haven’t you killed me?” Napoleon asked warily. 

Illya shrugged. “Curiosity.” When Napoleon stared, Illya said, “You haven’t told me your name.”

Ah, what the hell. “Napoleon Solo.” 

Illya’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like fake name.” 

“Tell that to my parents.” 

“So you expect me to believe that you, with CIA serum, are just art thief.” 

Napoleon sighed. “Look. I did sneak into the Kremlin, yes, but also just to pick up two eggs. Would’ve been three, if you hadn’t interrupted. If I wanted to kill vampires, I wouldn’t have been sneaking into an old museum. I would’ve been wiring up plastic under the Palace.”

“Very resourceful, to come this far.” 

“Thanks?”

“How many museums have you broken into?” 

“Kinda hard to keep count,” Napoleon admitted. “Why?”

“There is place I want to get into. You help me break in, I count your debt paid. You can leave Moscow.” 

“With the eggs?” Napoleon asked, before he could stop himself.

Illya chuckled. “No. Those are mine. However,” he said, sauntering closer, until he was too close, and there was nowhere further to back off except the bed itself, “I might be persuaded to give you one as a gift.” 

“Persuaded how?” Napoleon asked, because he had never been good at keeping his mouth shut. 

“Mm.” Illya was making a low, rumbling purr, bending to scent Napoleon’s throat. “Biting a willing human. Drinking without turning them. That would be new. I would like that.”

“Yeah, and you’d kill me. No thanks.” 

“I could kill you right now,” Illya pointed out. He kissed Napoleon’s throat, over the scabs of his bite, and chuckled again as Napoleon hissed and ducked away, flushing. “Think about it.”

Napoleon cleared his throat. Best to change the subject away from any throat-biting. “So where was this place you wanted to break into?”

“Pushkin State Museum.” 

Napoleon blinked. “You’re serious. Why?” 

“‘Why’ is not your concern.” 

“Is it some sort of human stronghold?” Napoleon asked warily. He wouldn’t be a party to that. Even to save his own life. 

“What do you think?” 

“I heard the human survivors in Moscow all live underground. Because you guys tolerate them and the ghoul packs aren’t usually coordinated enough to be a problem.” It didn’t really make sense to Napoleon. The stations were more defensible here, maybe, and the nights were long in winter.

“And you are right. Not human stronghold. Clan stronghold.” 

“The Antonova clan?” 

“Not bad guess.” 

“You Tambovs finally making a move?” 

Illya shook his head, smiling toothily. “There is no more Tambov clan. And soon, no more Antonova clan.” 

“What?” Napoleon frowned. “The human outposts on the way here, they didn’t say that.”

“To them, all same.” 

“So, what, you’re some kinda new clan? Took over?” 

Illya looked away, then he wandered over to the nearest heavily draped window, running his fingers over the sun-brightened velvet. “A long time ago,” he said eventually, “Russia also had its CIA.” 

“The KGB, yes.” Napoleon narrowed his eyes as Illya grinned, and now he could see it. The dead-eyed look that he’d forgotten to see, the precise sense of place. “KGB vampires? _Great_.” The CIA would love that. What was left of the CIA, anyway. 

“Not just vampires. Also humans. When the plague come, we withdraw. Take our survivors, retreat to black sites. Learn to control thirst. Study virus for long time. Then come back. Take Kremlin. Soon, rest of Moscow.” 

“Why don’t you just tell the human stations?”

“Not yet time. Have to deal with survivors, complicated.”

“And the random ghoul pack attacks?”

Illya shrugged. “You can only control the packs you turn. Most in Moscow, not ours.” 

“You could still help them,” Napoleon began, then swallowed the rest of his words. Even before the plague, the KGB was hardly an altruistic organisation. 

“There are many of them. Few of us.” 

“Very few, if you’re trying to recruit an American thief,” Napoleon said. Illya inclined his head. This changed things. Napoleon was fairly sure he could get away from a usual vampire, given time. One of the KGB, though? The KGB were lethal even before. He nearly felt sorry for the vampire clans. And yet… “I’m not really sure about a KGB-led Russia.” 

Illya laughed, his eyes hard. “You will be useful to me one way or the other, thief. Whether you come out alive at the end, up to you.”

#

Breaking into the Pushkin State Museum wasn’t that difficult. With its electronic defense systems down, it was just a matter of avoiding roaming ghoul packs and perimeter thralls. Hell, it would’ve been easier if Illya contributed, rather than strolling behind Napoleon like the world’s most dangerous tourist.

As another pair of thralls passed the street, Napoleon whispered, “I think you could’ve done this yourself.” 

“Loving your work,” Illya said, the bastard, and chuckled. Napoleon muttered a few choice words under his breath and stole across the street, glad that the snow here was plowed. Once they were close enough to see the stately structure of the Museum proper, though, Napoleon noted the coils of electric wire and UV lamps strung around the perimeter, and looked back at Illya, who raised his eyebrows and gestured. 

“I could shut that down,” Napoleon said, “but I’d set off an alarm.” 

“So find another way,” Illya said, indifferent.

Napoleon sighed. “How good are you with heights?” 

Firing the grapple from a nearby building to the roof of the Pushkin Museum thankfully went without a hitch. Inching over, legs wrapped over the cable, was an experience Napoleon hoped to never repeat. The Muscovite winter was swollen around them, picking the cable icy within minutes, and Napoleon was sure, despite his discipline, that his breaths and his heartbeat would be obvious to everyone below, that they’d be found. Shot. When he reached the edge of the roof, it was nearly a surprise. 

The rooftop snipers hadn’t noticed, thankfully. Lax. Napoleon crept up on one, checking his heat signature with infrared goggles. Human. He breathed out, pouncing, choking out the guard with an elbow lock until the man stopped kicking. Looking up, he was just in time to catch Illya crouched over the body of another sniper, wiping his mouth. 

Napoleon shuddered, and Illya smiled. “And now?” 

“I love skylights.” Napoleon cut an opening for them above an exhibit floor of architectural sculptures and editorial photography. He was about to dig in his pack for a rope when Illya scooped him up effortlessly in a bridal carry, and jumped. Somehow, Napoleon managed to stifle his yelp against Illya’s collar as Illya landed in a crouch. 

“Not bad so far,” Illya said, in the dark. 

Napoleon shoved at his shoulders. His quickened heartbeat was probably obvious to Illya, from the way Illya smirked at him. “Put me down.” Illya obliged, and Napoleon scrambled out of reach, trying not to feel flustered. “Okay, we’re in. Now what?” 

“Now we find Yekaterina Antonova.” 

“‘We’?” 

Illya made a show of looking around. “Inside here there are Van Goghs, Gauguins, Rembrandts. You want to find a way to carry them out by yourself, be my guest.” 

Napoleon stared at Illya. “There’s more to this, isn’t there. Surely you could’ve gotten in by yourself if you wanted to. If you were really a KGB agent.” 

“Do you think so?” Illya said, amused. 

“I think you probably have some sort of… of ceasefire with the Antonova clan. Some sort of agreement. That’s why you haven’t gotten rid of them the way you have the Tambovs. Maybe they allied with you against the Tambovs. But if a ‘CIA agent’ were to have broken into the Pushkin Museum, and some paintings were missing and the Antonova clan was found dead, people wouldn’t point fingers at the KGB.” 

Illya chuckled. “Better if CIA agent also found dead.” He went from lounging by an architectural miniature to pressed against Napoleon in a heartbeat, brushing a mocking kiss over Napoleon’s throat. “But I think that will be a waste. Unless I am wrong?” 

This time, when Napoleon shuddered, disgust had little to do with it. “The Rembrandt better still be here.”

#

Thankfully, Illya stopped being amused and started being helpful once they actually did find Yekaterina and her pack. Even inured to violence as Napoleon was, he found Illya in a serious brawling mood frightening—Illya was faster, stronger, _trained_. All Napoleon could do was stay out of the way and concentrate on picking off any human thralls who tried to get close with silver bullets.

Back in Illya’s suite, Napoleon was busy rewrapping the roll of stolen paintings in oilcloth when Illya said, “You would have made bad spy.” 

“And why’s that?” Napoleon tried to make a show of insouciance, turning around. Illya was lounging on a divan, his feet propped up on the glass coffee table. He had the Memory of Azov in his hands, his fingertips tracing the elegant filigree. 

“You have a lot of greed, a lot of pride.” Illya set the egg aside on the table. 

“Clockwork spies don’t make good spies either.” Reluctantly, Napoleon left the stolen paintings as they were, steeling himself to walk over. Illya smiled as Napoleon straddled his lap. He wasn’t warm, and there wasn’t any give to his flesh. “Rather,” Napoleon said, petting his fingertips lightly up and down Illya’s arms, “greed and pride give me an invaluable insight to the world.” 

“Oh?”

“You’re KGB trained. I know the KGB. Given access to vampiric soldiers, they’d have created a new training programme. Back in the Pushkin Museum, you were scary, but you were fighting like a human. Taking cover, using guns. But you’re not afraid of using your abilities. That tells me that you’re very committed to making it look like the Antonova clan died by a human hand.” 

“As you’ve guessed before.” 

“I think you want to create a symbol. Some sort of Van Helsing character. Slayer of vampires, saviour of settlements.” 

Illya chuckled. He leaned in, licking a cool stripe up Napoleon’s throat. “And why would I want to do that?” 

“A distraction for your enemies. And an easy way into the human settlements.” 

“Hmm.”

“Or you could let me go now,” Napoleon said lightly, “paintings, eggs, and all. Prove me wrong.” 

“I told you what I want for eggs.” Illya nuzzled his throat again, stroking his hands up and down Napoleon’s back. “You are clever, at least. I like that.” 

“I don’t see what’s in this for me,” Napoleon told him. There were more paintings out there, more Fabergé eggs. Napoleon had a battered excuse for a soul, sure, but he did still have one, and he had no interest in exchanging what was left of it even for the finest art in the world. 

“We want to contain contagion. Within Russian borders.” 

“And you think the world wouldn’t care if you guys set up some sort of vampire-KGB Russian state?” Napoleon couldn’t see that ending well.

Illya smiled. “World does not care about many things. Given enough incentive to look away.” 

Depressing but true. “So we come back to why I should care.” 

Fingers trailed up his thighs. “Give me time to show you.” 

“And if I don’t? You said I could leave Moscow.” 

“You could. But you might not get far.” 

“We’ll see,” Napoleon said, because it was fun to poke the wolf with a stick sometimes, especially when the predator he was straddling huffed with amusement and pulled him down for a kiss.

Vampires didn’t taste good. That was a surprise. Not unpleasant, not precisely, but there was something about licking against cooled skin, something about the strange tang to their saliva. He was kissing the flesh and bones of something effectively dead, no pulse under the palms he had pressed against Illya’s throat, Illya’s shoulder. Napoleon moaned. He’d chased death before, when he’d first joined the army, then again in the CIA, and now he had come close enough to touch, far north from what was left of the human world, in the snow and in the dark. 

“Why _are_ you here?” Illya compressed the question against Napoleon’s throat, his mouth, in English, then Russian, then in gesture, his wandering touch, stripping Napoleon of his layers. At least the heating in the hotel still worked, but Napoleon was shivering when he was naked, bleeding warmth into Illya’s fingertips. Napoleon didn’t bother to answer. He bit Illya instead, hard enough on the neck to bloody his mouth and teeth, and grinned as Illya’s eyes went wide. Vampire blood was bitter, thick with contagion, but the serum still worked. All he was going to get was a bad aftertaste in his mouth. Napoleon made a show of licking his lips anyway, and grinned as Illya growled and hauled him up, walking them both in quick strides to the bedroom. 

“You’re thinking of a way to kill me,” Illya said, not bothering to strip, nipping stinging little bites down from throat to nipple, drinking a sip with his tongue pressed to the nub. Napoleon twisted his fingers in Illya’s hair and pushed up against the pain, breathless. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Napoleon said, and arched, rubbing his firming cock against Illya’s hip. “Old habits and all that.” 

“How would you do it?” Illya sounded amused. He had a hand around Napoleon’s cock, and while the cool pressure was odd, it felt good, somehow, nails scratching over his shaft, squeezing him with a delicate application of the killing strength Illya was capable of. 

“You want to talk about this? _Now_?” 

Illya laughed. He nipped down to Napoleon’s cock, his eyes gleaming. “I want to bite you,” he said, a purr, a threat. Maybe here.” He kissed the tip of Napoleon’s cock, licking the bead of fluid that fed from the slit. “Or here.” Nudged beside Napoleon’s tightening balls, close to the artery on his thigh. “Even with your serum, if I drain you, you’ll die.” 

“Well, you’re fun in bed,” Napoleon said, though his cock twitched in Illya’s grasp, and he shook as Illya smiled and kissed him on the thigh, just over the artery. “I don’t want to kill you,” Napoleon said, as Illya nipped him under his balls, Gods, that was going to sting for ages and it shouldn’t feel this good. 

Illya snorted. “You stabbed me in back. Put flashbang grenade in my pocket.” 

“Both times I thought I was going to die if I didn’t. Give me a break.” Napoleon was starting to babble, but Illya was licking his cock, all stiff, firm laps, and somehow that felt good too, cool as his mouth was, nowhere near human. “You’re gorgeous. It’s unreal. The Pushkin Museum had a replica of the David, but with you there it looked like a bad imitation. You’re—”

“Quiet now,” Illya said, his voice rough, and bit Napoleon on the thigh, working in his teeth. His hand squeezed tight over Napoleon’s cock, enough that it hurt, and Napoleon was shaking into his first orgasm of the night, clawing at the bed. 

“What about you?” Napoleon asked, when Illya pressed him face-first onto the bed, nipping at the back of his throat. 

Illya didn’t answer for a moment, breathing him in, nipping his shoulders. “When you die. Things change. Pleasures shift.” Before Napoleon could make an incredulous query, a slicked finger pressed inside him, probing. “But I remember.” 

“If you’re not getting off on this then what’s the point?” 

Illya’s breath was cool against his skin, indulgent. “Sexual release is only small part of ‘the point’, American thief.” He pushed in another finger, and as Napoleon’s cock twitched weakly, Illya bit down, over the small of his back, near his spine, and Napoleon jerked against him and wailed.

#

Napoleon got as far as Smolensk before Illya caught up with him. “Should have gone south,” Illya told him, as they drove back towards Moscow in Napoleon’s stolen car, the heater rattling and wheezing. “Fewer checkpoints.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Napoleon grumbled. Illya hadn’t been gentle in the least when he’d finally bored of their cat and mouse game. It was a good thing he’d packed the eggs well. 

“Not bad,” Illya conceded. “Maybe you try harder next time.” He smiled, merciless. The escape attempts were building into what Illya wanted. What the KGB wanted. Napoleon’s reputation was spreading, twisting with each new rumour: an American had come to Russia to kill vampires, a warrior, with magic, or with CIA backing, or part-vampire himself, or part-God. Napoleon didn’t like it in the least. If the CIA had taught Napoleon one thing, it was that he hated being a pawn. 

“Why are _you_ here?” Napoleon asked, as they sped down a snow-clad stretch of empty road. “The world is very big and you’re immortal. Why this?” He gestured at the car, at himself. 

Illya didn’t even bother taking his eyes off the road. When he spoke, after a while, it was in Russian. “Power corrupts. We’ve seen that in people. In vampires. It eats you and eats you until at the end there is only an animal, a pitiful beast that knows only hunger. Some people weather it better than most, but what we have seen so far of the plague does not give us comfort.”

“And you’d have me believe that the KGB is immune to corruption and hunger.” 

“Of course not. We know what we are. We do what we must to preserve Russia. Become beasts ourselves. Topple countries. Perhaps even our own. But that’s the difference between us and the others. Power, with purpose.”

“If that’s what you like to tell yourselves,” Napoleon said, unconvinced. Russia was slowly starving, as sanctions and quarantines tried to contain the infection. Not that it was working. Ukraine was a war zone now. A quarter of Georgia was overrun. Outbreaks were sporadic in other countries, even across the oceans. “You should go south with me. Past Ukraine. See what it’s like.” 

He expected Illya to scoff, but Illya merely looked pensive. “Someday.” 

“I think you’re different. I think you don’t toe the line as much as you want me to believe. “

“Careful,” Illya said, edged. 

“I think there’s a reason why you’re so isolated. For all your talk about how great the KGB is, I think you agree with the ends, but the means disgust you.” Napoleon was going out on a limb here, based on guesswork and gut instinct. He was ready to jump out of the car if he had to. Sprint out over the long winter with no supplies. 

Illya’s handsome face twisted, and his hands clenched over the wheel, grinding metal. Then he exhaled. “You are very annoying.” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” 

“I should kill you,” Illya said, though Napoleon could see how empty that threat was. 

“Aww, you’re sweet, Peril.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Illya said absently. His hands relaxed. 

“I think I know why you want me here,” Napoleon dared to say. “Part of some KGB scheme, maybe. But beneath all that I think you want me to watch you. Not your back. You. You don’t want to turn into the others.” 

“You? You can’t hurt me.” 

“I have,” Napoleon reminded him. “But now I won’t. You don’t need someone like me with you.” 

Illya said nothing for a while. Then his jaw clenched, and he straightened against his seat. “Go to sleep. Long drive back to Moscow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Refs:  
> https://themoscowtimes.com/articles/kremlin-museum-56816  
> \--  
> Twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> Thanks everyone who participated in FTH!


End file.
